I hear the rustle of his clothes and the rhythmic sound of him stroking himself. The anticipation is a sharp ache, making me shift restlessly against the rail. I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck, possessive and heavy, before he steps closer, crowding my space until his heat blankets me completely.
His hands settle firmly on my hips, his fingers digging into my skin to hold me in place. Then, with a slow, deliberate pressure, he sinks into me.
I gasp, my head dropping forward as he fills me completely. The sensation is overwhelming—a blunt, heavyfullness that makes my breath hitch in my throat. I squeeze the banister so hard the wood bites into my palms, trying to stay quiet as he begins to move.
“There you go,” he grunts, his chest heaving against my back. He leans forward, his lips brushing my ear. “Don’t look away now. Watch them. Stay right here with me.”
He finds a steady, driving rhythm, each thrust pushing me further against the rail. From this height, the people below look small and insignificant, while up here, every inch of me is focused on the way he claims me. I bite my lip, trying to swallow the moans that threaten to spill out and alert the entire room to what their leader is doing in the shadows.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He catches my hair in one hand, pulling my head back so I’m forced to look down at the guests while he drives into me with a sudden, brutal force.
There’s no finesse to it now—just raw, hungry power. Every thrust is hard and fast, slamming my hips against the banister. The wood creaks under the pressure, and I have to bury my face in the crook of my arm to muffle the jagged sounds tearing out of my throat.
It’s frantic and desperate. It’s the kind of passion that leaves bruises and burns.
Timofey is a storm behind me, his breath coming in sharp, ragged growls. He isn’t just taking me; he’s marking me. His hands leave my hips to grip my shoulders, his nails digging in as he picks up the pace. The friction is intense, a blurring heat that pushes me toward the edge in seconds.
The contrast is dizzying—the polite, quiet dinner happening just feet below us and the primal, sweating reality of him breaking me apart up here.
“Look at them,” he hisses, his voice thick and strained. “Know they belong to you…and you belong to me.”
He hits a final, deep rhythm, his body tensing into granite. I feel the snap of his climax, a violent surge that sends a white-hot wave of pleasure through me. I arch my back, my toes curling against the floor, as he groans my name into the nape of my neck, his grip tightening until it’s almost painful.
For a long moment, the only sound is our labored breathing and the distant, mocking sound of a guest laughing in the dining room below. Timofey stays buried in me, his forehead resting against the back of my head, his heart thudding like a war drum against my spine.
He pulls out with a sharp breath, the sudden cold making me shiver as he disappears from my back. Before I can even catch my breath, he drops to his knees behind me.
His hands slide down to my thighs, his grip firm as he pulls me back toward him, forcing me to arch against the rail. Then, his tongue finds me—hot, wet, and hungry.
The transition is a shock to my system. After the hard, fast rhythm of before, this is a different kind of intensity. He’s relentless, his tongue swirling and flicking with a focus that makes my knees buckle. I have to lean all my weight on the banister just to stay upright.
Below, someone makes a toast. I hear the sound of glasses clinking and a round of light applause. It’s so normal, so civilized, while up here, I’m coming undone.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. He uses his thumbs to open me up, his breath hot against my skin as he works. The sensation builds like a fever, tight and unbearable. I try to hold it in, but my head falls back, and a low, broken moan escapes my throat.
The world starts to blur. The lights of the chandeliers below turn into streaks of gold.
“Timofey,” I gasp, my fingers clawing at the wood.
He doesn’t stop. He pushes harder, his tongue mimicking the fast pace from before until I hit the edge. My vision goes white as the orgasm crashes over me—a violent, shaking release that leaves me trembling. I can’t hide it anymore; I let out a sharp, breathless cry that hangs in the air for a second before being swallowed by the noise of the party.
I slump forward against the railing, completely spent. Behind me, I feel Timofey stand up, his presence warm and steady as he leans over me, pressing a soft, possessive kiss to my sweat-damp shoulder.
He kisses my forehead, his touch lingering and soft against my skin. “Return to your party, Queen Valeria,” he says, his voice now a smooth, steady caress. “When it’s over, I’ll worship you all night.”
I let out a shaky chuckle, my body still humming from his touch. “Now I can’t wait for it to be over.”
His expression softens, a deep, genuine warmth reaching his eyes. “I love you so much,” he says, pulling me in for one last brief, grounding embrace. “I’m proud of you. And I’m sure your father is, too.”
The mention of my father hits me like a physical weight, grounding the high of the last few minutes with a sharp, emotional sting. It’s the one thing I needed to hear, the one thing that makes all the performance and the blood and the power worth it.
By the time I turn away to head back down the stairs, there are tears in my eyes. I blink them back, smoothing my dress and lifting my chin. By the time I reach the bottom step and re-enter the light of the dining room, the queen’s mask is back in place.
Chapter 32 – Timofey
I watch Valeria move through the Petrov estate like she didn’t fight to get it back. She’s the center of it all—unchallenged, unquestioned, inevitable.
Valeria doesn’t raise her voice.
